


Being Brave and Crash Landings

by 8ami



Series: Garrett & Cal [14]
Category: Love Simon (2018), Simonverse | Creekwood Series - Becky Albertalli
Genre: About Time I Got This Started, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bad Parenting, Canon Bisexual Character, Coming Out, Garrett's parents do not win any parenting awards, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Pan!Garrett, Pansexual Character, Pansexual Garrett Laughlin, Self-Doubt, Underage Drinking, Verbal Abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-19
Updated: 2019-06-29
Packaged: 2019-10-31 06:50:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17844473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/8ami/pseuds/8ami
Summary: Garrett comes out to his parents and the comes out to his friends about his parents.He didn't want to do either. Honestly, the only thing he really wants is Cal, but maybe he shouldn't.





	1. Wednesday, October 4th : Part I

**Author's Note:**

> I know I've been promising this story since October, but better late than never right?! I certainly hope so. I hope this lives up to what yall have been expecting of this story and it's following chapters. 
> 
> The wonderful nymphstreet beta'd this for me back in December when I first felt like it was good enough, but I have since changed some things and I wanted to get this up before I changed my mind again so there might be some errors still.
> 
> Enjoy.

I’m leaning against the kitchen counter letting the edge dig into my lower back, watching as my parents stand at the island. It’s not often all three of us are home for dinner, even an early one like this one turned out to be, so they’re making an event of it, even though they’re just making sandwiches. Mom’s put on some music that’s cherry with feel-good lyrics while my dad gets out the bread with a small grin at my mom before sliding the smile at me. I can’t return it, but he’s already moved on thanks to my mom handing him containers from the fridge to put on the island. Mayo. Honey ham. Turkey. American cheese and provolone.

I’m distinctly not hungry and that feeling doesn’t change as my mom starts slicing up bananas in order to ruin a perfectly good peanut butter sandwich. My dad starts folding up ham and turkey for his own and it kinda makes me nauseous. 

I’ve barely been home for twenty minutes, hair wet from the shower after practice and I already want to leave, but I can’t run from this.

“Garrett, hon, what type of sandwich do you want?” Mom asks looking at me with a kind smile.

It’s been two weeks since I came out to my friends, since Cal and I officially started dating, and I still haven’t told my parents about it all. But I’m running out of time. I have to tell them today.

Every day in the last two weeks, I’ve woken up worried that someone else will tell my parents before I come out to them while not being able to say anything myself. It’s already going to be a bad conversation, one I really don’t want to have, but if they hear it from someone that’s not me, well, that will just make it so much worse. 

And tomorrow is a PTA meeting which my mom has freely admitted to is twenty percent work and eighty percent gossip - about other parents, the teachers, and students. I can’t take the chance that my coming out won’t be talked about because I know Spier’s and Bram’s were. I thought about maybe convincing my mom not to go to the meeting, but I know that won’t work. Both my parents like to be involved with my school, especially my mom - she’s active it the PTA and the Booster Club for soccer. She hasn’t missed a meeting my entire high school career and volunteers to help at all the events - hell, she’s been a chaperone for all of my school dances since sixth grade.

I have to tell them today. I have to, despite my heart rate picking up like a racehorse.

“I’m not really hungry.” I answer looking in their direction, but not directly at them.“But, uh, there’s something I wanted to talk to you two about.”

My mom makes this soft ‘oh’ sound that I’ve only heard mothers make before turning to face me completely, a hand on her hip and the other one on the counter, holding onto the knife she was using to slice bananas up so that it doesn’t touch the countertop.  Dad looks up from the massive sandwich he’s building, regarding me with concern for my well being. 

And like, fuck. It just makes all this so much more difficult, really, because they’re my parents. They don’t get to be concerned about me when they’re the problem, but I want them to be. I want them to be concerned because being concerned means they care about me. I want them to care about me enough that what I’m about to tell them won’t change anything. I need them to.

I actually jump when I realize I still haven’t said anything and that they’re waiting on me; my eyes dropping to both of their faces before skipping away quickly. “Oh, right, uh- well, you see- ”

“Now wait right there Garrett, this isn’t about Bram is it?” My dad asks tone full of warning as his concern for my well being is easily replaced by concern for the topic. 

Ever since Bram came out as gay, my parent’s opinion of him has changed. They talk about him disrespectfully, cruelly even, sometimes, and because I won’t stop being his friend they’ve put in place several ‘rules’ regarding him. Like I don’t bring Bram over (at least not while they’re home), I don’t bring him up in conversation unless I have to (some days I  _ have  _ to a lot more than others), and I don’t remind my parents I’m still his friend despite what they want (I always remind them because it’s what  _ I _ want). 

“Oh, honey,” Mom starts in cloaking her frustration for the conversation and me with heavy disappointment, “please don’t bring up that sick boy. We’ve already discussed this. While your father and I do not approve of you associating with such a degenerate, we’re respecting your decision to associate with him.” I hate how she avoids saying Bram is my friend, how she avoids saying his name.

It’s been like this for months now and my mom has come to a point where anything she says in these situations is picked with purpose. Her word choice chosen with great care, kinda like Cal does, except her words are meant to degrade my feelings, make myself question my stance while Cal never does that.

She waves me off dismissively without waiting for a reply from me, going back to making lunch with a frown just at the corner of her mouth. Deliberately, just a notch above a whisper so that I’ll hear it across the room she adds, “insisting on wasting time with that boy, we’ve raised you better. I swear.”

“It’s not about Bram. It’s about me.” I correct hotly. I really hate it when they talk about Bram. I hate that it’s all these passive-aggressive sentences from my mom. I hate that if I say anything it will just turn into a fight with my dad defending her and their ideals. 

I hate that I don’t turn this into a fight, that I don’t stick up for Bram right now, but the hot emotion of anger, of doing something to fix something so unjust is hard to hold onto when my veins are turning cold as I struggle to stay in the kitchen. I don’t like the cold and I’ve never been good at staying still.

“Well then, what is it?” My mother asks, her disappointment instantly replaced, back to being concerned for me now that she knows it isn’t about Bram. The rapid change of her regard towards me makes me a little dizzy.

I feel uncomfortable, fidgety and flushed despite having ice water in my lungs. Cringing already, I look down at my hands unable to look at my parents, near them, or even in their direction, unable to be that brave. It takes me a second to decide it’s my hands shaking and not my vision.

It might not be so bad, I try to tell myself. They’re my parents after all. I’m their son and that has to count for something. So this might be okay. 

It might be.

“I’m uh…” the words stumble over my tongue with the rest of the sentence trailing back in my throat, “well, I mean,” I have to cough up the words I need to say, “I’m pansexual is… that’s all.” 

There’s no intake of horrid breath, no instant reaction of yelling or cursing, instead, it’s just silent. It’s quiet in the same way a classroom is when a teacher asks a question and no one offers up an answer. I don’t know if that’s a good thing or not, it’s not what I was expecting and it leaves me off footed as I try to work through what’s happening without looking up or saying more.

I come up with nothing and end up having to raise my head, my eyes skipping around to find a pair of identically colored ones on my mom’s face. In that second, I realize it’s quiet not because none of the students know the answer, but because no one knew a question had been asked. Her face is touched by confusion, her lips pursed, eyes pinched making her look like she wants to be offered an explanation rather than ask for one.

I look to my dad to see if he’ll explain, if he understands, but his face is blank. It’s completely unreadable as he just stares me down from across the room. Looking at him feels too much, it feels like a fight that I’m unprepared for despite thinking about this conversation and how to deal with it for days, weeks, months.

“And what is that, Garrett” My mom finally prompts with a little huff, upset that she had to ask.

My throat tightens making it hard to swallow, but I push forward. Mainly, because I don’t think I can stop now. I already opened the box and no matter how much I try I won’t be able to put everything back correctly. “It means that, well, it means that I’m into people. Like romantically into people. Just people, you know? Sex doesn’t matter.” 

“Regardless of sex? Like girls and… boys?” My mom asks slowly like it’s physically painful for her to get the words past her lips. It doesn’t leave a bad taste in her mouth, it leaves her tongue burning from spice.

Quietly, “yeah, Mom, that’s right.” I actually see the moment all the confusion, all the hope that she heard wrong is rushed away from her face by anger and disgust. It’s robotic almost, too quick and strained with hard lines biting and her jaw tight. There’s something in her eyes that seems to go up in flames as she looks at me, leaving it blacken and burnt and unrecognizable. 

My chest implodes, I swear I can feel my ribs and lungs and muscles and ligaments and nerves all crash inward towards my heart, wrapping up the organ as if it’s the only way to keep it together. And maybe that’s true because my heart feels cracked and I can feel it bruising now under the pressure. But I hold onto that pressure because I know once all those other organs and parts of my body go back to doing their own jobs my heart is going to actually fall apart. I can feel the cracks, the breaks that are so deep and sour they can only be created by someone you love, trust, need hurting you. It shouldn’t be surprising how much it hurts, but all of my preparations for this conversation fall short in shielding me from how my mom is looking at me like she might hate me.

Her head snaps to my dad and for a second I think she’s broken her neck, but when she can’t catch his gaze, still looking at me with nothing on his face to connect to, she looks down at the mess for dinner on the island. She posts the heels of her hands on the edge of the counter allowing her to keep her hold on the butter knife and let her fingers on the other hand curl tightly, her back raising sharply, with eyes wide enough for me to see even from her profile that she’s processing information.

I wait still trying to process how much this sucks, how much this hurts, trying to remind myself that this won’t actually kill me. 

“No.” The words crisp, “no, no, that’s not… no, absolutely not. You’re not… you’re not whatever that word is you used. You aren’t that. No.” She turns to me sharply, hands shaking with knuckles white, causing me to jump like a rabbit in the sights of a hawk, “ _ No _ .” She says it directly to me as if that one word is enough to burn out whatever she doesn’t want to see in me. My breath hitches as my heart somehow slips from the iron grip of my lungs and muscles to drop into my stomach left to float and burn in stomach acid.

“This isn’t something you can just say no to, Mom.” I manage, voice more solid than I feel, but still quieter than what’s normal for me. It reminds me of when I was younger when I got into trouble after I broke one of my mom’s good pieces of China. Guilt attaching itself to my insides, old enough to know I’m wrong, to know I’m going to get in trouble, but I told her anyways in a voice too quiet, like now.

I was wrong then though. I should have felt guilty. I shouldn’t have to feel guilty for this, for liking people, for liking Cal. So, I swallow down everything, but the fact that I’m not wrong. I’m not wrong. I’m not wrong. And I repeat that in my head until I know I’ll sound more sure, braver when I ask for acceptance, “you can’t say no to this - say that this is okay. Please,  _ Mom _ . This is okay.”

The small shake of my mom’s head - it’s barely there, all subconscious motion - fucking feels like she just gutted me with the knife she’s just put down with small distrustful movements. The one that she used to ruin her sandwich, to in turn ruin me. “No, Garrett. This is, is - you’re straight like you’re supposed to be. That boy- that  _ fag  _ has just gotten you confused. 

“We really should have been more hard on him about that, Ed. We shouldn’t have let him keep associating with that boy.” My mom says the last part to my dad as if I’m not standing right here. I grit my teeth at what she calls Bram, at how she continues to talk about him, blame him when this has nothing to do with him.  

“This isn’t Bram’s fault - it  _ isn’t  _ anyone’s fault, Mom. I’m not confused or anything like that.” I cut in desperately moving away from the counter, hands pleading as I take a few steps closer to my parents, “I just like people. Mom, what’s wrong with that seriously? Liking people because they’re as kind and unbelievably sweet and the type of funny that always makes me smile. How is that wrong?” I defend, I reason, because I need my parents. I need them just like I need Cal and Bram and Nick and the others in my life. I don’t want to lose them over this. I have to be able to get them to understand that this is okay. That Bram is okay. That Speir is okay. That Cal is okay. 

That I’m okay like this.

“It’s wrong when that person is another boy, Garrett.” She argues back as if the answer is obvious.

I stutter over what to say to such a statement spoken so sure, “why… why is that wrong?” I’ve asked this question before, a lot over the last half of the year actually, but it’s never been in reference to me. I want that to matter.

It doesn’t. 

“Why is that wrong? Because that’s not natural, it’s not right, it’s not what’s intended. What’s intended is that you're supposed to graduate, go to college, find a lovely, very female, wife, have kids, find a job. That’s what’s right.” She argues glaring at me, actually glaring. 

“And I can still do those things! Except maybe I don’t have a wife, maybe I have a husband, but that’s - ” I don’t get to continue when my mom makes this sound like she’s choking, throwing her hands up in the air as she says no again.

And again. And again. And again.

Until, I’m no longer trying to speak, to defend myself. Until, she slams her hands onto the island counter hard enough the sound echoes in the kitchen. “You will not do that. Not in this house. In this house you’re straight. In this house, you will only date girls. In this house, you  _ will _ stop associating with Bram.” It’s the first time I’ve heard her use Bram’s name in months and she says it with so much venom I want to call and make sure he’s okay. As if her tone could somehow cut him from here like it’s cutting me. “Is that clear, Garrett?”

It would be easy to say yes, to turn and walk away, go back to lying to them. 

But I’m tired of lying to so many people and I’m already shaking and cracked like a dropped mirror. “That’s going to be hard to do when I  _ am  _ pansexual and I  _ am  _ dating a guy and I  _ am  _ staying Bram’s friend.” My mom visible flinches at my words, as if I’ve physically hurt her just now, and I wish I didn’t want to desperately take back my words to make her happier. I have to bite the inside of my cheek hard enough that I can taste copper to keep myself from saying anything more.

The kitchen falls quiet again, tense like the floor is made out of ice ready to crack like everything else. 

My mom has her eyes shuts like she’s done looking at me, hoping that when she opens them again the world will be different, that I won’t be different. “Why?” She asks all air and high pitched, breaking the silence, breaking the ice sending me plummeting into icy waters so that my skin is as cold as my insides. 

I don’t know what she’s asking, and despite trying to, I can’t figure it out dealing with icy waters and messed up organs.“Why what?”

“Why are you doing this to us?” My mom doesn’t yell even now, hasn’t this whole time, in fact, I don’t think I’ve ever heard her yell, but she doesn’t need to. Her voice carries as she intends it to, and I don’t miss any of her distaste, her disappointment, her anger, and her  _ pain _ . And before I can really deal with that, she keeps going. “What are you thinking, really, Garrett? What did we do wrong? Are you trying to hurt us - we’re your parents. We just want what's best for you. 

“We’ve been good to you. We’ve cared for and supported you your whole life. You’ve never gone to bed hungry. We’ve never hurt you. We’ve given you a good life, help set you up for a good future. And here you are throwing all of that away now for some boy because you’re confused.

“Garrett, this phase will ruin your future and it will ruin this family. Have you thought about that at all? Have you? How can you be so selfish? We raised you better. Now stop this before you do something that can’t be fixed.”

It almost sounds like she’s pleading, begging for me to make the right, straight decision, but there’s no room for negotiating in her words. And with each new sentence that leaves my mom’s mouth, the closer and closer I feel like I’m going to pass out from lack of breathing. Which I don’t understand, because my chest is heaving, shouldn’t that mean I’m getting oxygen?

I open my mouth, but I flounder like a fish on land for a few seconds, before weakly, desperately offering, “I’m not ruining myself or anything like that- I’m just dating a guy. There’s nothing wrong with that. It’s not ruining my future or this family or… or- there’s nothing wrong with me.” I need her to hear me over her own words, but she just shakes her looking like she’s grief-stricken. 

“I wish that was true.” The words hit me hard - I lose all the remaining air in my lungs, my heart feels like it’s burning up in bile, my blood has frozen, and my skin burns cold. It doesn’t get any better when she then turns and walks the fuck out of the kitchen. I wonder if she’s also walking out on me too, but I weakly tell myself not to be so overdramatic.

I just stare blankly at the doorway as pressure hits behind my eyes, and it’s only when my dad lets out this bone-deep sigh that I realize he’s still here, has been here this entire time, silent and blank during the whole exchange. My eyes snap to him finding him finally not looking at me instead he’s looking at the counter as he starts up with his sandwich again before doing the same to the one my mom was making. It doesn’t make sense, it doesn’t fit into this situation in my head. I watch him do it as if I’ve never seen him or anyone else do it before, as if it’s alien somehow when he’s just making sandwiches. 

“Dad?” My voice is shaking and wet. My vision is the same, but I refuse to cry, to even think about crying.

He puts both sandwiches on a single plate, before finally looking up at me. “Go to your room, Garrett. Stay there, until your mother and I come to talk to you.”

“Wha...just go to- is that...is that really all that you have to say?” I manage confused now on top of everything else. Afraid even, because at least I know where my mom stands.

“Room.” My dad repeats. He doesn’t move until I get my feet moving, leaving the middle of the kitchen to follow his orders because what else am I supposed to do? I head to my bedroom while my dad goes to my parent’s and not for the first time I’m glad their bedroom is on the opposite side of the house from mine. I probably don’t want to hear what else they have to say; I didn’t want to hear what they had already said. 

I lay down on my bed rerunning the conversation regardless of wanting nothing to do with this anymore, repeating phrases and looks until it physically hurts to think and then continue to do it anyways. I try to break it apart, understand it all, but none of it makes sense in my head and at the end of it all I just feel like I’m tired and wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had this written for a bit now and I rewrote it several times since. This will be a multichapter story and I hadn't wanted to start with the conversation with Garrett's parents, but I've gotten about a 1/3 of this written and it just doesn't really work nicely to have this conversation being a flashback type of thing.


	2. Wednesday, October 4th : Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garrett spends some time in his room after telling his parents unsure on what to do next.

According to my clock, it’s only been twenty minutes since I got sent to my room like I did something wrong. I didn't. It only feels like I did. I just wish I knew what the hell my parents were saying without me present, but I'm also glad I can't hear them if how my mom looked at me as she walked away was anything to go by. And fuck her face.

It's only been twenty minutes, but it feels like forever as I pace my room uncertainty hitting my veins like a bad hit. I've always kind of thought that forever was something out of fairytales and at weddings, something with cringe-worthy happiness, something to get out of bed for each morning, something that leaves you feeling light and smiling. Apparently, that's not right. Apparently, forever is filled with cold sweats and heated cheeks like I'm running a fever with shaky anticipation built upon trembling, dwindling hope, jumping nerves, and merry go round thoughts that are trying to drown me.

I keep getting from my desk to walk over to my bed, sit down for a few cracking heartbeats, before returning to my desk where I open up a browser on my computer, letting the cursor blink a few times in the homepage search bar before closing it out and going back to my bed, tossing my blanket and pillow around as if I place them just right I could cocoon away from the world. Other than my footsteps, my stumbling breathing, and my computer mouse clicking, the house sits quiet. I know from experience that my parents could be shouting in their room and I wouldn't hear it, but the house itself is silent as if it's frozen in anticipation. I wonder if my parents are ever going to come talk to me, or if they're going to leave me and the house in uncertainty. I wonder if a house can give away due to anxiety, which I quickly realize is a stupid thought, but if I don't think about the house, I'd have to admit that I'm worried about my heart falling apart completely.

I shake my head of that thought, letting myself fall completely backward onto my bed so I’m staring at the popcorn ceiling, past the ceiling into nothing. I'm so worried about what they're going to say when they come talk to me, except should I be? Haven't they said everything they need to say already?  How likely was it for them to come in and suddenly have a change of heart?

I tell myself, on a deep breath in, that it’s unlikely they’ll kick me out or anything that extreme.

I also tell myself, on the exhale out, that they’re never going to let things go back to before.

I have no idea where to expect this whole thing to land, probably closer to the kicking-me-out end of the spectrum, but fuck, I don't know and it's twisting my stomach into nauseous causing knots. Which is only made worse by the fact that my room is spinning slowly above me. It's like I can feel my chest and my body turning with the room, but my head hasn't gotten the memo and it's leaving me feeling disjointed and sick. 

I close my eyes for a second, find that doing so only makes it so much worse which shouldn't surprise me considering how often I make bad decisions, and I have to sit up quickly moving to land on my knees in front of the trashcan near my desk. The vomit is mostly bile, as I skipped lunch and didn't have anything once I got home, but it leaves my throat burning and my eyes prickling, which sweeps over the dull pain in my legs that landing hard on my knees had caused. 

I swipe a bottle of water off my computer desk that I left there a few days ago, using it to rinse out my mouth. I lean forward so that my forehead touches the cool metal of my desk, hanging over the bin in case my body riots again. Momentarily, I'm glad that my mom made me start using liners in the small trash can last year. That thought is quickly replaced with images of how she looked at me in the kitchen and I tell myself I'm not about to cry, that I'll stop shaking, that I'll remember how to use my lungs correctly soon. Without energy to get up off the floor now that I'm down here, I just maneuver until my back is against my desk, drawer handles digging into my spine. The pain has a bite that while holds me to the ground, eventually causes me to lean forward, bringing my knees up to rest my folded arms on.

My phone goes off above me; I can hear the familiar chime I have set up for message notification. I do hear it, but it slips my mind and only comes back to the forefront of my thoughts after I make a round through my recurring thoughts of worry and hate and fear and deeply rooted sadness that I've already  gone through several times already since being sent to my room.  I can reach my phone without actually getting up; I have it plugged into my computer to charge, and I'm able to throw my hand up over my shoulder onto my desk's surface, fumbling around for a bit disorientated,  I end up with the device in my unsettled hands. 

It takes me three attempts to unlock my phone.

It's a text from Eisner timestamped ten minutes ago, and for a moment, an irrational moment, I think he's texted me about what's happened as if he knows somehow.  My breathing skips and honestly, I'm almost relieved before my heart rate picks up and I have to open the text.

 

 **October 4th** **  
** **Text Group: Me, Laughlin, Greenfeld, Si, Abbs, Leah**

5:03 PM N :: Up for games at my place this Saturday? Parents are out this weekend but said it was cool to have you guys over.

 

The terror that had started to stir in my chest trickle away. It would be easier if I wasn't a little disappointed that the text isn't anything. Why would any of my friends know what happened? Why would I want them to? I told my parents, that doesn't suddenly make all my lies and cover stories dissolve. I told my parents and look at what the fuck happened.

Spier and Leah have both responded already, almost instantly according to their timestamps, with a thumbs up and a 'yeah', respectively. I watch the clock on my phone turn an even twenty before Abby says she can swing by after dinner on Saturday and asks about turning the get together into a sleepover - her words, not mine - which the answer is 'yes as if there was any doubt'. Spier throws up a smiley face with shades, and I make a choking sound that might have been a laugh somewhere else but is really only a sob right now. I run a hand through my hair staring at my phone, lines of text blurring for a moment.

I don’t cry.

I fucking don’t.

And really, I kinda feel like laughing, anyway. Laughing in that horrid way one does when one’s made aware of the outside world and what’s happening out there that just doesn’t make sense in this breaking moment. Because it feels fucking weird watching my friends chat like nothing is wrong when my world is crumbling. These texts, my friends, they don't fit into this moment of my life like they're supposed to. They're making plans for this weekend like it's all fine, and it is. For them. Because I haven't told them any different. I don't want to tell them any different.

But I do.

I want to tell them, to hear someone say I'm going to be okay - the promise sounds hollow coming from myself. 

I don't respond to the conversation my friends are having. I can't make my fingers type out anything. I don't know what to say, don't know how to mesh these two odd moments of my life together - needing to drag them down to start bringing me up. I don't know how, so I don't. I just drop my phone in between my legs. I hear it hit the carpet with a soft thud, as I bury my face into my hands, blackening my vision. My fingers dig into my hairline, trying to use the dull pain of my nails to focus my racing thoughts, to drag me into the physical world and out of my head and heart.

How do I just lay it all out on the table after keeping so much to myself, hiding and lying all these months when I've needed to, because it has been _months_.

On some level, I know it's not the same, but I can't shake the idea that Abby, Leah, and Nick will react like the last time they found out one of their friends was keeping something big from them. It hadn't gone well. And I know, I _know_ it's different. The stuff with Spier - they had been a sense of involvement then. They wouldn't have that here. They wouldn't.

But Bram would. Spier too.

Honestly, there's no reaction to me telling my friends that would end well. Either Bram and them will feel betrayed on some stupid level by me for keeping things a secret, or they would feel a sense of responsibility that was not there's to take on. Best case, it becomes a topic we all avoid talking about leaving worried and pity filled glances my way. Worse case, they not only feel like my parent's reaction is their fault, but they also get authorities involved somehow. Because they could. Because I could.

I won't do that to my parents and I won't do that to my friends. 

I won't do that to myself.

And maybe I just need to suck it up and fuck the consequences and just talk to my best friend, because I could really fucking use the comfort. I could use not feeling like I'm alone in this right now. I could use my parents calming down and accepting me right now.

It's not the first time, I've thought about telling Bram everything. An idea that is quickly followed by the idea that: I don't want to hurt my friends, I don't want to introduce more hate - hate that would be coming from my parents, my family, my life - into Bram's life. I can't handle him possibly feeling guilty over this when he absolutely shouldn't. It's not his fault, but I know he's going to make it his fault in his head. I can't hurt my friend like that. So I kept my mouth shut then and I keep my mouth shut now, wishing I wouldn't.

A sobbing sound escapes my lips. Of course, the one time I need to say something is the one time I can't say anything. I tell myself it's okay. That I can't tell my friends that stuff is not okay here when I'm still wanting my parents to see that it is okay. I tell myself that I'm not crying, that I'm breathing, that my friends are good, that I'm okay. The lies in that series of thought far outweigh the truths, but I ignore it, push it away because it's what I need to do.

It's about what I need to do, not what I want.

I grab my phone off the floor and reopen the group chat. Bram's replied, saying he'll check with his mom. It's a damn good out and I take it, typing out that I'm doing the same before I can overthink this reply - decide if it makes me a coward, a bad friend, or a good one.  I don't wait for a response, just close out the message chain and open up my messages with Cal marked with 'Cal $$' despite that being what I saved his name as months ago, before we started dating.

My thumbs hover of the keyboard.  Cal already knows about my parents.

 

 **October 4th** **  
** **Text Group: Me, Cal $$**

5:29 PM G :: what r u up to?

5:36 PM C :: Netflix at Taylor’s.

5:38 PM G :: I told my parents.

5:38 PM G :: before u ask. it did not go well.

  

Cal doesn’t bother texting back as the second after I send that message my phone rings with his caller ID. 

I let it ring, focusing on the picture above the ID that I have for his contact photo. I took it during the summer when I went to pick him up from the town’s Performing Arts Center where the local theatre troupe puts on productions. He was helping paint the sets for the newest show. I don’t remember what the show was, but I remember being worried I was going to run into his dad when I went in to find him, impatient and possibly a little needy, after ten minutes of waiting outside for him. Thankfully, I didn’t run into his dad, and I was able to find Cal in the back with green paint swiped under one eye. When I went to take of picture of that, he had threatened me with a paintbrush; which I think makes it an even better picture as his eyes are daring and bright and there’s laughter on his lips despite him having not actually laughed in the moment.

It’s a good picture. It's a good moment to have saved.

Cal calls a second time. I answer it this time on the third ring.

“Hey,” my voice is low and a little raw from strain.

"What are - what's... Garrett, talk to me, please." He stumbles, and I think the few times I've heard him struggle so much with words is after watching a horror film. My ribs squeeze in a little at knowing I caused the fear in his voice. I wish he wasn't on the other side of my phone. I wish I could hold him right now, even if that's a little selfish.

I shut my eyes, focusing on my breathing for a few slowing heartbeats. "My parents are in their room talking about it all now, talking about me really, I suppose." I realize I sound more than just low, I sound tired, and I am. The type of tired that's bloomed from days upon days upon days of worry finally being spent. The type of tired that sleep doesn't fix.

"What happened before that?"

I whimper a little at the question. I don't want to answer. I don't want to make him sad, I don't want to make myself sadder. I don't want to say it. The silence hangs thick between us, and he lets out this sound that's all air and regret, and I just know he's about to tell me that I don't have to answer, ask me how I am rather than about what's happened. I cut in. "Can I come to see you?" I ask despite knowing he's at Taylor's, knowing that I'm asking him to ditch her without telling her the real reason why. I'm going to lose favor with her, but fuck it, I need Cal more than I need his best friend to like me.

“Of course, I want to be with you.” Which is an answer to my question, but also to the worry that’s bleeding into my voice almost unnoticed by me. The corner of my lips twitch upwards but ultimately fall back into the frown that's taken up residence on my face.

"I'll text you when I head that way. I can't sit around here just waiting... but I'm going to give my parents a few more minutes. See if they finish talking, you know?" I mumble and stretch, sounding small even to my own ears. It's the most I've said since the kitchen and it feels weird to talk, but the loose sentences match the structure the thoughts in my head.

I can hear Cal nod just slightly into the phone, "yeah, okay. That sounds good, Garrett."

"Cool, yeah... good, it's good then. I'll text you." Good isn't really a word either of us should be using and it makes me cringe slightly just to use it, but it's already out there and I can't take that back, so I just have to live with it.

I don't hang up right away and Cal's waiting on me to do so, leaving us with an empty line of just breathing. I try to match my breathing with his and it works. Sort of, anyways, for as soon as I do end the call, I lose the tempo Cal had set as quickly as snow melts in summer.

My grip on my phone is knuckle-white tight.

And it’s only then that I realize I’m planning on leaving. That I might even be leaving before my parents come back before they make any sort of decision outside of the ones they’ve made in the kitchen. It fills my chest with ice water, but I feel like if I don't go I'm going to drown. If I ever want to taste fresh air again, I need to leave, I need to find comfort and security that I lost here. 

I close my eyes and let my head fall back, hitting the fake wood of my desk with a soft thud. My phone goes off again. It’s Cal sending me heart emojis and letting me know he's there if I want to talk, if texting is easier he's okay with that, just wanting to be here for me. My throat goes tight and I don't know what to say. Which is apparently the theme of the night for me. I send back my own heart emoji and tell him I'll see him soon instead of answer his questions.

I wait for an hour, but my parents don’t show. Cal’s texted me a handful of time and called me once, but I don’t answer any of them. My friends' chat group has gone off a few more times, but I haven't even looked at them. I have at least made it off the floor of my room and back onto my bed. I even manage to drink the rest of my water bottle without being sick.

But it's been an hour, I've given them twice as long as I planned on giving them. I can't wait around any longer. I get to my feet and step out of my room, down the hall, and it’s not until I get to the living room that I hear anything other than the house settling.

My parents aren’t whispering. 

I stall there in the middle of my living room where we’ve spent time and time again in being a family in the past, listening to their damaging words. I wait for them to pause, to have heard me, to just  _know_ , but ultimately they just keep arguing and crying and being awful.

I slam the front door when I leave.

I’m carefully filing away their words and everything in my head, letting it all drift to the back as I focus on the mechanical motion of starting my truck, focusing on the road, driving. There’s something soothing about the turning of tires beneath me, something that lets me leave it all behind as if I could just outrun everything. I can’t really, I know that at the end of the drive it will all come back, but at the end of this drive is Cal. That means something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to respond to comments later this week! Thank you for those that left Kudos and comments, I really appreciate it! Hopefully, yall enjoyed this chapter as well. The next chapter should be up sooner rather than later mainly because I had it part of this chapter at one point so it's mostly written already.
> 
> Also finally, edited Chapter 1 of 'Texts To and From'.


	3. Wednesday, October 4th : Part III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garrett talks to Cal, soaking up all the warmth while he can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay new chapter! 
> 
> nymphstreet took the time to beta this for, because they're a nice and wonderful person.
> 
> Enjoy!!

I park my truck in front of Taylor’s house and make to pull out my phone to text Cal, but realize I don’t have to when I see him coming out the front door. He jogs down the walkway to the street. I barely manage to unlock my truck, before Cal’s opening the passenger side door. 

My phone slips through my fingers, but I don’t give it a single thought as I immediately pull Cal across the middle console into a hug, burying my face into the crook of his neck, as everything settles back down onto my shoulders. Cal’s arms wrap around my back and I can feel him press his lips against my temple. One of the hands on my back starts rubbing in circles. The simple caring gesture knocks me off balance and I have to tighten my hold on my boyfriend not to fall.

“Garrett.” The word itself isn’t a question, but the tone is. I don’t exactly know what the question is, maybe there’s more than one question and that’s why I can’t make them out. What I focus on in the word, though, is the lack of pressure. Cal’s not going to push me for answers, Cal never pushes me in general. It’s probably one of my favorite things about Cal, but it’s also an aspect of Cal that makes me worry - just how much he’ll wait, how much he’ll let himself struggle in order to wait on me. It means I have to think things through more often, try to gauge what's going on with him when he doesn't say anything - something I’m still learning to do to the degree I need to.

I squeeze my eyes shut even harder than before, taking in a deep breath that’s all his clean scent, as my fingers find stronger purchase in his shirt. I must be holding onto him hard enough to hurt a little, and I try to loosen my grip only to feel myself slipping, knowing that if I let go too much I’m going to fall apart at the seams. I have to tighten my grip again. I can feel Cal’s pulse beating too fast, and if he’s this worked up I can’t image what my own heartbeat must sound like. My chest is burning up in freezing waters too much for me to give heartbeats a second thought.

Suddenly, I’m washed with need in a different sense and I pull back just enough to kiss him, hard, needy, and desperate. My hands slide around to his chest, one continuing up to hold the side of his face. I nip at his bottom lip with my teeth in order to get him to part his lips, and when he does I slip my tongue into his mouth. Cal kisses me back at first, but before the kiss can become something more (desperate, messy, maybe tear-stained), Cal pulls away from me. I chase after him, my eyes nearly closed not daring to open them enough to see more of the world, but Cal puts his hands on my shoulders keeping me at a distance with the only way to kiss him now was if I actually pushed. Just the thought of that makes me uncomfortable, I cringe moving to wrap my hands around his wrists, just holding on, in acknowledgment of what he wants.

Cal leans forward to press our foreheads together and I can feel his breath start to tangle with my own hard breathing. “Please… please, I need you to… I need to know this okay, that this is still real,” I don’t know what I mean; my voice scratched and wet and almost like I’m on the verge of a panic attack. I don’t know what I mean, but I need him to answer me anyway.

Cal doesn’t say anything for a moment, then he breaks skin contact with me all together causing me to out to let out this pathetic whimper that lingers even when his hands come back to cup my face. I instantly lean into his touch. “Please, open your eyes.” His request makes me realize at some point I’ve shut out the world again. I swallow harshly but push myself to do as he asks. My eyelids feel heavy, but I manage. I take in his face - his eyes staring into mine. There’s so much there under the surface of the ocean blue, too much for me to make out with everything already in turmoil inside me. The swirling of so, so much in Cal’s eyes is only highlighted by the worry etched into his brow, heightened by the tight line of his jaw being set.

“Let me show you.” His words are so soft, so fragile that I don’t know who he’s protecting here with such a tone. It doesn’t matter, though, because he’s asking me for permission and I  _ need _ to give it to him. I nod, small, jerky, and sure against his hands. 

Cal moves forward, but instead of kissing me right away, he slows at the point where lips are just brushing against each other. I shiver as his breath runs along my lips, my chest inflating with his air, and then he closes the distance for good. Cal sets the kiss at such a slow fashion that I can’t do anything but follow after him. There’s a weight to his lips against mine, his hands on my face - something that’s being built up instead of something starting to crumble.

The kiss is nothing more than a press of lips, moving against each other in familiarity that only comes from time put in. There’s nothing underneath the kiss, but a want made from choice, light enough around the edges that I think I could slip underneath and live there forever - the kind of forever I thought belonged with happily ever after’s. 

Cal tastes like he cares, feels like he wants. 

Like he cares about  _ me _ . Like he wants  _ me _ .

And oh god, I feel like crying again but for a completely different reason.

When the kiss ends with Cal gently pulling back, I’m left lightheaded and disconnected for a heartbeat - a heartbeat I can count - staring at him, blinking slowly, while he stares back. A crushing wave of relief hits me, hits me hard enough that I have to pull him back into a hug swallowing down this sound that sound like something broken being pieced back together. His arms move to wrap around my shoulders.

“You’re wonderful. Thank you for… thank you,” I confess into his blond hair, “thank you, thank you.” With each wet word slipping out of my mouth, Cal holds me tighter as if he’s afraid I might fall apart if he lets go, as if he doesn’t know he’s already keeping me together.

I don’t know how long we sit there, holding onto each other, but eventually, I start to feel cold and I realize Cal didn’t have a chance to actually shut the passenger door behind him. Which would explain why my truck's inside lights are still on. I give a breathless, short laugh, breaking apart from him - heavy, nerves shot, together, and a little embarrassed.

Cal tilts his head a little at the sound, it’s a very cute thing he does when he’s confused. I throw a loose hand towards the space behind him. “The door…” I croak, Cal’s eyes going a little wide in surprise, before he’s quickly closing the door finally.

“No wonder I was getting cold.” He says lightly.

“You’re always cold.” I pause realizing that Cal’s only wearing a T-shirt, a band tee, I think. It’s a little worn with the logo cracked. Cal  _ is _ always cold, and while the days are still on the warmer side, the nights have been dropping lower and lower. I haven’t seen Cal without a jacket all week, “where’s your jacket?”

I think Cal’s cheeks go a little pink, but it’s hard to tell when the lights inside the cab of my truck flicker off just then having timed out. “I left it inside Taylor’s. I didn’t want to go back to Taylor’s room to get it when I saw your truck pull up.” He explains.

I’m not wearing a jacket, I don’t think it’s that bad out really, though, even if I had, truth be told, I doubt I would have remembered a jacket with everything going down as it was. So, I don’t have anything to offer him, causing me to frown.

He’s here for me and now he’s cold. He’s here because I asked him to be here and I’ve let him be cold. 

I don’t say anything as I turn my truck back on, turning on the heater. It’s a little late, but it’s something. Right? Cal takes up my hand, entwining our fingers, causing me to look up at him. He’s watching me again with all those emotions and a small upturn of one side of his lips. “Thanks.”

That doesn’t seem right and I open my mouth to tell him he doesn’t have to thank me for anything, to tell him I’m sorry about the cold, to tell him  _ something _ , but I don’t find any words causing me to shut my mouth, eyes glancing away from him with my brow furrowed.

“Garrett, you don’t owe me anything. You don’t have to tell me anything.”

And oh. That’s right.

I drop my gaze to look at our hands. Cal’s thumb is moving back and forth across the back of my hand in a soothing manner, the motion easy to get lost in. His hands are cold, always cold, but they’re so much more than that too. I never feel like my hand will slip out of his or as if I’m trapped there in his grip. His hands are soft, fingers slotting in between mine like they fit there naturally. 

“My parents didn’t… they haven’t… they were still talking when I left.” Cal’s smart and he puts together that means I left without telling them and it causes the worry worked into the lines around his eyes to deepen. “It’s okay,” I tell him, trying to brush it all off - my words, my parents, Cal’s worry - but it doesn’t work. I just feel worse for trying and failing, letting my shoulders sag. 

At least, it’s getting warm inside the cab.

“It’s not okay.” Cal corrects me, trying very hard to work that into my head if his tone means anything - he’s a little harder on the constants, drawl pressed to the edges. I squeeze his hand, trying to reassure both of us. I don’t think it really works.

“It’s not.” I’m startled by the two words, so quiet that I barely hear the words myself. I gasp, my breathing hitting a hard spot as that admittance leaves my head, settles in the world. The gasp turns into a sob that wrecks my body. It’s an effort to keep myself sitting up, to let my eyes turn watery while keeping my cheeks dry. “It’s not okay at all.”

“Oh, Garrett.” Cal leans over the console, hand on my back and the other one on my cheek. He presses his forehead against my temple, lightly kisses at the corner of my eye. “I’m so sorry.” He repeats the phrase, warmth spreading through his cold skin, holding onto me. I bring up my hands, loosely holding onto his arm that’s leaned across my body. I don’t want him to remove his hand, so it’s not a hard grip by any means, just another way for me to hold onto him.

I get my breathing under control eventually, and it’s only then that Cal lets there be space between us. I can’t look at him, don’t know what to say, and while I can breathe now, I’m finding it hard to stop shaking. 

Cal rubs my back a little, “why don’t you let me drive and we’ll go somewhere sa- comfortable… that's not outside of Taylor's house.” And I swear ‘comfortable’ is not what Cal was going to say first. I think I know what he was going to say. I hate it. I hate all of this. I squeeze my eyes shut, hold onto Cal’s forearm a bit tighter, and then breaths everything out.

“Okay.”

I can’t stay out of my head long enough to follow really, but Cal manages to get me into the passenger seat, where I curl up on my side to look at him, while he takes up the seat behind the wheel of my truck. He’s never driven my truck before, and honestly, I don’t even know if he has his license. I also don’t care. I certainly can’t drive anymore. My head is a mess, my chest hurts so much and I wish Cal didn’t look so fucking heartbroken when he looked at me. Worry so deep that it’s pinched at his lips, burrowed into his skin until it’s touching organs. I get why he’s worried, but honestly, that just makes it worse - that the worry is justified.

I keep trying to leave my head, focus on the movement of the wheels like I did when coming to pick up Cal. I focus on Cal’s hand, the one I’m holding onto with both of mine. The road is starting to soothe, wanting to pull me along the pavement until I go right off the end of the world. And Cal’s hand feels like the world. The lines carved into his palm, the callus on his ring finger from writing so much, so often, the graphite buried into his fingertips making them smooth, and the temperature change from the base of his palm to his cold fingers. It holds me to the world, letting my thoughts fade leaving my head empty, my chest hollow. Empty is better than broken, hurting.

Cal’s parking in his driveway before I really know it, and I only really know it because Cal turns to face me with the car in park. If I focus, I can see Cal’s house out the window behind him. All the lights are out except for the porch lights and I’m sure that means his parents aren’t home, but I could be wrong.

Cal unbuckles both of us, before tracing the ends of his fingers along my face drawing my attention to him. “What’s on your mind?” He asks just over the sound of the heater. I’m still curled sideways in my passenger seat, legs pulled up onto the seat, shoulders curled, and I still feel like I’m taking up too much space.

I swallow hard, “what if...are your parents home?” He shakes his head and waits, “what if they do… come home, I mean?” I don’t ask, ‘what if your parents come home and don’t want me here like mine don’t want me’ but I think he hears the fear anyways because his gaze softens around the edge, thumb stroking along my cheek below my eye, soothing the pressure that’s building there from not crying.

“Then they come home. It won’t be anything more than that.” Cal reassures.

“What if they’re upset?”

“My parents will not be upset at you, Garrett.” He reaffirms, the blue of his eyes darkening. Not in the way lust does with blown pupils casting his iris in shadow, but in the way that the blue color is actually darker, a deeper part of the ocean. It’s easy to hide things in the dark. There’s a shipwreck in the depths, all sharp lines and algae covered metal - forgotten and sad and made into a new purpose. From carrying people and cargo into homes for a variety of sea creatures. 

I don’t remember how to breathe and I don’t remember how not to cry.

Cal’s pulling me across the console into a hug in the next second after the first tear falls. I clutch at him as an ugly sob breaks from my chest, tears staining his shoulder in seconds. I’m trembling hard enough that my cries are shaking as they leave my throat. Cal doesn’t say anything or if he does I can’t hear it; he just holds me tight, running his hands over my back and shoulders, pressing kisses into my hair until I’m left with red eyes, embarrassment, and an emptiness that forms only after crying out one’s emotions. I’m still shaking, I still can’t catch my break and Cal still holds me.

“Let’s go inside, Garrett. We can lay down and I promise you my parents won’t be upset with you.” There’s something to the end of his words that makes me think he means his promise, that he’ll make sure he’ll keep it, so I nod against his shoulder. Cal waits on me to actually start moving, before dropping his arms from around me. The door handle is loose and rattles a bit in my hands. I ignore it, dealing instead with the fact that I feel like I’m going to tip right over, but I get out without falling or tumbling back into tears. 

Cal’s on my side of the truck in the moment after my feet touch the pavement, and he moves like he’s going to take up my hand or bring me into a hug again, but stops himself as he looks at me from top to bottom. I realize that I’ve put my weight against the truck, leaning into the metal hard.

“Garrett?” He sounds so much like he’s worried and so much like he cares and I have to shut my eyes.

I don’t have an answer to his one-word question. Crying has left me exhausted and a little numb around the frayed edges. I didn’t mean to cry, and I’m not thrilled I did, but I kinda thought I’d feel a little better after it. I don’t. Just a different kind of heavy. I don’t want him to worry, though, so I offer him my hand wishing the pressure around my eyes would go away, that crying wouldn’t leave me with a headache or a migraine, or even just for that my eyes would stop stinging.

Cal takes my hand, stepping closer to me. I can feel him right in front of me, and I’m waiting for something to happen, but he doesn’t move forward or say anything. Instead, he takes a step back, squeezing my hand and I squeeze back, opening my eyes in curiosity more than anything else. There’s nothing on Cal’s face that gives away to what he was just thinking, what he thought about doing but didn’t. Instead, there’s all that dept and ocean blues and sad lines.

I follow without pause when he pulls me softly towards the front door, into his house, and up to his room. The house is quiet and warm and pleasant and it makes my chest ache. Exhaustion hits me the moment I see his bed; I let go of Cal to crawl onto his comforter, bury my face into the blanket in order to shut out the rest of the room. 

Cal sits down on the bed, I feel it sink, and when I don’t immediately feel him come closer to me I shuffle to my side to find him taking off his shoes. I feel too tired to do the same, my eyes still wet, my chest still hurting, but I end up not needing to, because once his shoes are off, Cal starts to take mine off. I try to find the words to tell him he doesn’t have to do that, but I don’t and I blink to find him already done. My shoes drop to the floor with a thunk as he turns over his shoulder to catch my gaze. 

He lays down on his side next to me then. He’s resting his head his hand, bent at the elbow as he begins to card his fingers through the hair on the side of my head and along the side of my cheek, just taking me in again it seems. I let the motion, the touch, work itself into my system. My hands holding tight to my own shirt in something that’s not quite hugging myself, with my shoulders curled and my knees pulled up towards my chest making myself feel small and fragile, in some kind of act of protection, but it’s Cal’s hand and presence that’s making me feel safe.

I think I could fall asleep like this - exhausted and cried out and with worry bone-deep, but ultimately I don’t, I can’t with my nerves twitching and my muscles too tight and my head running and running with thoughts.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you like this,” Cal says breaking the silence, words so soft I don’t think he actually meant to break anything.

A short puff of air that’s suppose to be a laugh, but is much too strained to actually sound one falls pasts my lips, “our relationship is pretty much based around me freaking out.” I actually think it’s pretty funny considering it’s an accurate statement even with the hints of self-deprecation hanging onto the letters, but the corners of Cal’s lips just dip down causing me to lose the humor I was finding in my words.

“That’s not what I was talking about.” He doesn’t explain what he was talking about, just lets a moment of silence fall between us before saying, “I don’t want you doubting yourself, Garrett. You shouldn’t. You’re amazing as you are and it’s awful that your parents can’t see that, but that doesn’t change who you are.”

My lips part just so as I process his words. 

I don’t know if he’s right. 

I don’t know what to say, his words sweeping me off balance as if a rug got torn right out from under me. I want to tell him that of course, I’m not doubting myself, that I know exactly who I am, but the words won’t come together and I’m just left with a weight on my chest and a feeling like I’m coming last in a race only against myself. 

My parents’ words don’t change who I am, I know that… but a part of me almost wished it would, a part of me wished I could be whatever it is my parents need in order to love me again. And I’m aware that for that to come to pass then it would mean the end to my friendship with Bram, the end to my relationship with Cal. And I hate that I’m even remotely thinking about that being something I might accept it in the right circumstance. 

I fucking hate it, because Cal is here in front of me keeping me together and I’ve never wanted anything in my life more than I want him, but it’s still there in the back of my mind. I try to focus on rehearing Cal’s words in my head. That I shouldn’t be doubting myself, that this sucks, but I’m still me and that’s  _ okay _ . I’m okay.

The words get pushed around by my mom’s words.  _ No, no, no, no. _

My eyes are getting watery again and it takes a few tries to get an actual breath into my lungs. “She called me confused, said I was ruining myself by being with you. She said I was wrong… I know, I know she’s not right… but…” I’m surprised I say anything at all much less manage to find these words. Cal is too I think. He stills in front of me and I think he even stops breathing as he processes my words, “She just kept saying ‘no’ to everything I said. Over and over again. Just ‘no’... and then she… she just walked out of the kitchen.”

Cal presses his entire palm along my cheek, and I think his eyes might be a little glossy but that might just be the water in my own eyes getting in the way. “Your mom?” He asks, but he already knows the answer so I don’t say anything. I think he’s just hoping I’m going to tell him he’s wrong. I can’t. I just can’t. 

Cal must see something on my face - hurt, struggle, fuck I don’t know, but something more than before - because he slides the hand he has on my cheek around to the back of my head, holding me, pulling me a little closer so that when he leans down he’s pressing his forehead to my temple like he had before in the truck. “I’m so sorry, Garrett, I’m so, so sorry you had to face that. She’s the one that’s wrong. She’s wrong. There isn’t anything wrong with you.” His words ghosts across my skin and I shut my eyes soaking in everything that’s Cal. I hear him. I swear I do. Quieter, a little more shaky but with something close to a promise he adds, “I won’t ruin you.”

He sounds so sad like his heart is breaking. I can’t get my head straight, but the one thing I do know, what I do feel is that I don’t want Cal to be sad, because he’s so  _ good _ . I push at the back and forth in my head and open my eyes as I shift on to my back. Cal follows with his hand still at the back of my head but raises his face away from mine. He’s leaned over me now, he’s everything in my vision. I untangle my hands from my own shirt and put them on his. 

“What if I want you to ruin me?” I attempt to tease, pressing my hands flat against his chest in appreciation of his body so that he’ll get what my tone is lacking right now.

He cocks his head a little, brows furrowed before a soft smile tugs at his lips, making all of this a little more bearable. Cal shakes his head at me but leans down to kiss my lips as soft as his smile. It’s a simple kiss, something warm and calming and caring, something that settles in all the right places in me to quiet the doubt just a little a bit more. Cal pulls back, kisses me one more quick time, before falling down on top of me.

There’s a bit of a struggle, before Cal settles with his arms wrapped around my back, pressed into the mattress by me. One of his hands holds onto my shoulder the other my waist, his face pressed to the side of mine with his weight on top of me keeping me secure. I hug him back, pulling him impossibly closer. He repeats that ‘there isn’t anything wrong with you’ over and over again, words spoken right into my ear. 

Cal’s gone quiet a few moments ago even though we’re still inseparable, just holding onto each other, keeping each other together, I suppose, when I break the silence with the rest of my worry. “When I left… I could hear them arguing, you know, and she said things… called me…,” I can hear the wobble in my own voice as I struggle. “I think she wants to kick me out - she kept saying how she wasn’t going to live in the same house as me if I didn’t take back what I said in the kitchen.”

If my earlier words made Cal freeze, these pushed him into motion. He pushes himself up, arms jerking out from under me to post himself on his elbows,  holding himself above me, as he looks down at me. I keep my arms around him, loose so that I can match his gaze. Eyes wide, he’s frowning hard with all of his face. When he speaks, he has the same tick to his voice that comes up after Taylor’s convinced him to watch the latest horror movie. “What? She wants… Gar… maybe, we should talk to my parents? Or something - you can’t go back there when there’s talk like that.” I don’t get to think about how small Cal sounds, how it sounds like he’s the one breaking, because just the idea of telling anyone, much less Cal’s parents, has me losing my footing all over again.

I screw my eyes shut trying really really really fucking hard to remember that my lungs and my heart and all my damn organs work just fine - there isn’t anything wrong with me. Cal starts to say my name, but I start shaking my head cutting him off. 

“Please… please, no, no, no…” I let go of him to press the heels of my palms into my eyes until red stars burst in the dark of my closed eyes forcing Cal to move off to the side of me, “ no. I can’t… it’s not… Cal, please.” I don’t know what I’m begging him for exactly - to not just talk about this, to not tell anyone, to forget about this, to just  _ not _ . Whatever it is I’m asking for, the words themselves leave a sour taste in my mouth, something that taste likes a bad memory.

Cal doesn’t say anything. 

I can’t shut out the world any more than I already am, but I try anyway, pushing my palms even harder into my sockets. I’m trying to count heartbeats and when that doesn’t work I try to count stars bursting behind my eyelids but they bleed away before I can put a number to them. It’s making me feel dizzy and sick. It’s only when I feel the bed shifting under Cal’s movement that I let go of my ‘no’s that's moving past my lips in order to track his movements blind.

I think he sits up, leans with his back against the headboard because I can feel him above me at a distance. I think he’s shuffle pillows around and I think he’s frowning. Cal’s fingers start to string through my hair in something soothing, without saying anything, just letting me breathe too quickly. 

Slowly, I lower my hands from my eyes, the room coming back in flashes and red spots as my eyes try to readjust. My eyes burn from too little light and too much stress. Tilting my head back a little I can see that Cal is, in fact, sitting up against the headboard beside me. He's not looking at me, staring without focus ahead of him, caught up in his head.

“Please…,” I start catching attention, worried eyes snap down towards me, “please, just don’t. I need to give them a chance… they just need time, yeah?” I wish that wasn’t a question.

Cal’s lips thin, fingers continuing to pet through my hair, as he thinks over my request. Slowly, he drops his gaze, letting out a low breath that sounds like regret. It makes my chest tighten. “Okay,” and that’s not what I thought he was going to say. It startles me as I tense up listening closer to the rest of the words I can see on the tip of his tongue. “Okay, Garrett. Just a little bit of time.” The words sound like they’re choking him. “Just a little.”

“Just a little.” I reaffirm to make sure he knows I heard him, to make sure I know that I heard him.

Cal didn’t want to give in, he didn’t want to say those words. I can see the worry he has double, triple so quickly at agreeing. I can see him already regretting his decision, so I move to not give him too much time to overthink this. I shift and roll over until I can wrap my arms around his stomach, putting my head onto his chest as I curl close to his side. He slides down a little making it more comfortable. His own arms coming to wrap up again, hand pressed to into my shoulder blade, hand laid across the arm I have across his stomach.

“I don’t know if it’s the right thing.” He admits on a deep breath in.

I nod into his chest, about to start begging again when instead I cough up a cry that hits me in all the wrong ways and leaves me crying hard. I squeeze my eyes shut trying to stop the tears from slipping down my chest, to prevent my tears from dampening Cal’s shirt, but I can’t. I can’t because… because I’m so fucking scared.

There’s so much going on and it’s all so wrong and it’s all tangled up together where I’ve been trying to handle things one at a time resulting in putting knots in the rope holding everything together. There’s too many pieces on the board - my parents and their reaction to me, Bram’s involvement, Cal’s involvement, my friends being kept in the dark, Cal’s worry and want to tell someone, the possibility of someone with authority knowing, putting Cal in a position he doesn’t want to be, of telling Bram the beginning to end of things - and I don’t even know what game I’m playing. 

Slowly, I strain my neck to look up at Cal. It’s only now that I’m looking at Cal that I can see that he’s started to silently cry as well. I reach up with shaking hands to brush at the tear tracks on the skin beneath Cal’s eyes. My vision blurs a little more. “I’m sorry,” I mumble, my gut falling out of my body unaware that it’s still connected to the rest of my organs, brushing at his face more. I hate that I’ve made him cry. I didn’t mean to make him cry.

I don’t want him to cry, but I also don’t want him to tell anyone. Fear hitting at the care I feel for him. If he tells someone, my parents might get in trouble, I might have to go stay with my sister. I don’t want to leave Cal, I don’t want to leave my friends. I can’t let my parents take that too. I wish I could figure out how to say that, to explain to Cal why, but the only words I can actually get out are, “I’m sorry.”

Cal’s eyes snap down to match mine, intense in a way that’s hard to be under, “don’t you dare.” He starts cutting the words sharp around the edges making me flinch back for all of a half second. Long enough for me to realize that his tone isn’t directed at me, but not soon enough to stop myself from moving. “Don’t you dare apologize to me for any of this, Garrett. You have nothing to apologize for. Nothing.” And his voice breaks at the end, swallowing hard around what appears to be a lump in his throat as if that’s more than just an expression.

Hesitantly, I agree, “okay.”

He pulls me close then, awkwardly holding me in order to bury his face into the crook of my neck. “I won’t say anything to my parents or anyone else, just, please… please don’t let yourself go through this alone. I don’t need protecting from this - them, I need to be able to be here for you moving forward. Promise me, promise me that you won’t hide any of this from me.” 

I bite my lip, squeezing tightly, “I promise,” and I’m surprised to realize I mean it. As much as I want to keep Cal from this thing with my parents, I can’t handle this alone anymore. I need him if tonight didn’t make that clear to me already. I need him, so I promise.

When Cal’s parents open the front door in what seems like hours later, but probably isn’t by any means, Cal is ghosting fingers through my hair with my head on his chest. We’ve both been quiet for a while, just soaking in each other’s presence keeping the reality of everything just out of reach. At least I am, letting myself sink into something close to comfort. Cal might be too, but he also might be running his thoughts over everything spoken between us. I just don’t have the energy to do so. Taking the moment to rest while I can, I suppose.

I tense, muscles locking up more and more listening to Cal’s parents move about the entry hall - shutting the door, taking off coats, soft words of review over their night, shoes scuffing the floor. I pick up the words ‘truck’ and ‘say anything’ and ‘not very long’ as their conversation seems to move on from recapping which I know has to do with me even if I can’t put all the words into context. And I know Cal’s room is on the second floor and they already know I’m here, but I kinda want to jump out the window along the far wall to avoid them anyways.

Cal’s fingers glance my ear this round through my hair, “it’s okay, Garrett, remember they won’t be mad at you.” I do remember that and I do trust Cal, but it doesn’t stop me from shivering and shivering and maybe it’s not shivering if it doesn’t stop. I bury my face into his chest, nose bent in order to hide completely, my vision made of up only of his t-shirt still a little wet from earlier. I can’t hear his heart over my own gaining speed, reality sweeping in hard.

Cal’s pressing a scattering of kisses onto the top of my head when I hear someone clear their throat back towards the doorway to Cal’s room. I skip a breath, breathing in when I should be breathing out at realizing that his mom is  _ right there _ . I draw into myself, into Cal, and I’m sure I’m going to leave a bruise on him. Maybe from my fingers digging into the side of his ribcage, or my heel hooked around his ankle, or knee pressed hard against the side of his leg, or where my hip is catching his. 

I knew his parents would come to check on us, I knew his parents would come upstairs, I knew his parents would come home, but I wasn’t prepared for it. I don’t know how I was supposed to prepare for it.

“Hi, mom.” Cal greets causally, like this is all normal, and if I wasn't looking for it I would think the tone was genuine but there's an aftertaste of tightness to his words that comes from stress.

“Hello, boys. I didn’t expect to see you tonight, Garrett.” I know I should turn around and greet her since she’s addressed me personally. Apologize, maybe, for being in her house with her son without her permission. But, I can’t figure out if her words are cold or too hot, if she’s teasing or if she’s upset. I have no idea how she’s going to look at me if I let go of Cal to face her. I don’t know if she’s going to look at me the same way my mom did right before she left the kitchen. “Garrett?”

Cal speaks up for me, back to making soothing circles with his hand on my back. “He got into a bad fight with his parents, Mom.” It’s not a lie, but I wished it was. I wish I could speak up for myself, but I did that in my kitchen and that ended in flames.

Cal’s mom makes this noise that sounds so much like one Cal makes that I know it means she’s startled and rethinking the situation. She doesn’t say anything for a minute or maybe it’s an hour, I don’t really know, but then she says okay and just reminds us it’s a school night. I hear her footsteps fading away, my breathing getting quicker with each step she takes until I can’t get any air in my chest and I’m heaving and my eyes burn and there’s no way I’m ever going to stop shaking. 

Cal doesn’t ask about why I’m suddenly so freaked out. I think he can figure it out. Instead, he just repeats, “it’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay.” He bends his neck to do so, lips brushing my temple above my ear. He threads his hand into my hair and his far arm comes to circle around my back holding me tight and secure. It has to put a strain on his back or his neck, I think, but I’m a pretty selfish guy - my mom thought so anyway - and I need this, need him like this all around me.

Sometime later, when I’ve calmed down and feel drained and embarrassed and couldn’t cry even if I wanted to, I manage to sit up and mumble something about needing to go home. I don’t move to get off the bed, though, my limbs heavy and my head foggy. Cal follows me up, sitting next to me on the edge of the bed in the following heartbeat.

He brushes my wild mess of my hair due to own his hands across my forehead, lightly. “You could stay the night. I’ll talk to my parents. You wouldn’t be able to sleep in here with me, but you wouldn’t have to go back.” Cal’s so quiet and his voice is wobbly with uncertainty, but the edges are firm, fraying inwards. 

I can’t stay. I have to go home; I have to hear what decision my parents came to. I have to face this and get this out of the way. I need to deal with the fact that I ran away and whatever decisions they make. I have to. What I say instead of any of that is, “it’s a school night,” as I push myself off the bed so that I can reach my shoes and start putting them on. 

Cal’s sigh is bone-rattle deep, but he doesn’t say anything. Once, my shoes are on, I get to my feet and start towards the stairs before I think about it and change course. I can hear Cal following me and a moment later he takes my hand searching for that contact again.

I can hear Cal’s parents in their living room, and I can feel them looking over the couch at us as I lead Cal across the entry hall and out the front door. I don’t want to think about what they’re going to ask Cal once I’m gone. Or what he going tells them. I have enough in my chest to think about.

Cal walks me all the way to my truck, wrapping his arms around my neck in one last hug once we’re beside the old thing. My hands find his waist on their own and I move them across his back to pull him close so that his chest is against mine and I can bury my face in the crook of his neck again. 

“I don’t want you to go back there,” Cal admits and he sounds like he was supposed to swallow those words down, like he hadn’t meant to say them. It’s not a lie, but it’s a truth that he hadn’t wanted to share and damn do I know that feeling.

I just hug him a little tighter and say, “Thank you for being here for me.”

“Of course.” And he makes it sound like it really isn’t that big of a thing, as if him being here, dealing with me tonight is something that could go unthanked.

I want to thank him again, until he doesn’t push it away so quickly, I want to apologize for putting him in this situation, instead, I just whisper, “I really like you, Cal.”

Cal pulls back to look over my face, “I really like you too, Garrett.” And then he’s kissing me. A kiss that reaches the bottom of my heart, a kiss that I fall into that’s just enough feelings not to be overwhelming. 

I break the kiss, then kiss him once more quickly, “I’ll text you, okay?” Cal hears it for what it is, that I’m going back to my house, that I can’t stall any longer. 

He frowns as I step away from him, not letting go of my hand until I catch his gaze again. “Please text me.” I hear it for what it is, that Cal doesn’t want me to be alone, that he wants to be here for me.

I slowly nod, squeeze his hand in agreement, and then pull open my truck door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Work is hitting the busy season so the next chapter might be a bit, but I do plan on sticking to my once a month posting thing so at the very latest the next chapter should be up by the end of next month.
> 
> I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter, it was emotionally draining to write.


	4. Thursday, October 5th

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garrett stays home from school the next day. So does his mom.

I'm counting my breathing.  _In. Out._ One.  _In. Out._ Two.  _In. Out._ Three. On the seventh deep exhale out, I finally manage to turn off my truck, letting it settle into silence behind my mom's crossover in the driveway. Once moving, I keep myself going, making myself get out of the truck with my feet hitting the concrete as if it's jello. A little wobbly, I push away from the truck to make my way up the walk, hands pushed hard into my pockets to my nervous hands.

I honestly almost knock on my own front door, but I catch myself and grab the handle instead.

The door catches on its lock and for a full minute, my heart stops. I have house keys, they’re on the keyring with my truck key - I’m _not_ locked out. Not really, but I don’t miss the damn message. I press my forehead against the wood of the door. It’s cool against my skin as I just stand there trying to breathe, trying to coax my heart back into a natural pattern. One more breath. And another. Two more.

I finally get my keys back out. It takes a second to get the key into the slot, the metal scratching out of the slot under the control of my shaking hands. It finally goes it and twists easily as it always has. I shouldn’t be as relieved by that as I am.

The living room is dark and quiet and my stomach sinks even further into the ground.

Mostly, despite feeling sick, I realize I’m relieved at finding no one just _waiting_ for me. I’m not greeted with conflict the moment I get home, but there’s also this bite in my stomach, something trying to tear it’s way out, over the fact that all my anticipation was for nothing. All of this tightness, holding myself together, falls away with nothing to press against it. It makes my shoulders sink, my chest feel empty and like I’m standing on the wrong foot.

Sluggishly, I move forward reaching the back of the room where it splits off into two directions behind the couch - the master to my right and the smaller bedrooms to my left, my parents’ room to my right and my room to my left. The air turns thin as I look down the small hallway to my parents’ closed door.

I think I should knock, find out what sort of conclusion they came to, but I can’t make my feet move in that direction. Besides, haven’t I heard enough to know what they think? My blood pressure spikes as I think that maybe, just maybe, the answer to that is no. What if there is more than what I heard? Could it possibly be okay?

I glance at the doorway between the living room and the kitchen. Could it be worse?

I have to physically shake my head to get off that train of thought, to clear my head leaving behind only a hazy exhaustion that has me slowly moving towards my room. I speed up a little with each step, fear chasing at my heels at the idea that my parents’ door could open any moment. That my acceptance of things being done for the day is going to be shattered.

I make it to my room just fine, my parents stay asleep right along with the rest of the house. I close my door tightly, walk to my bed, before turning to check on the door again making sure it would slide open during the night.

I don’t turn on the light to my room, using the light from the streetlight outside to navigate. One step, two steps and then I freeze as I realize I didn’t turn off my light when I left earlier. I knew that my parents would come from me - I mean, I had been waiting for them to come find me, of course, my parents would have found that I wasn’t home. I knew that. But it just now hits me that it’s actually _true_ now that there’s physical proof.

I check my phone and there’s a new message from Cal and a few more in the group text with my friends regarding the weekend, but there’s nothing from my parents. They knew I was gone, but they never reached out to find me… I genuinely don’t understand what rips through me then and there in the middle of my room with only the light floating in from the street and shining up from my phone, but it makes me want to ugly cry.

I suck in my breath when it tries to hitch, grit my teeth my brows furrow deep into my skin pushing my eyes down to suck that feeling back into me, to keep it all inside just behind my stomach where it can press on my spinal cord and leaves me fidgety. I shift my weight a lot as I make myself put my phone away and move.

Finally, I sit down on my bed, removing my shoes with twitching fingers and a deep push of air from my lungs. I stand to grab my sleep pants, but my knees ripple due to the pressure on my insides and I crash back onto the bed, burying my face into the comforter. I don’t bother trying to get up again, instead I strain my arms to pull myself fully onto my bed, still hiding my face from the room and world until it feels like I’ve cried without actually shedding any tears. My head is a fog with nothing clear, nothing to focus on but this odd feeling of being an anchor attached to a sinking ship.

I expect to fall asleep instantly, to crash due to the exhaustion like when my dad’s mother died. I had been pretty close to her - I had called her Mimi and she made the best apple pie. She’d always make it for my birthday leaving her house smelling of apples and cinnamon and a warmth that felt like home. She had lived in a house just down the street, a house that a young couple with their two dogs live in now, and I would visit her at least twice a week where she would tell me stories of her late husband and my dad as a child.

I didn’t know she had been sick, no one had told me because I was so young at the time. I had been mad for months after, sometimes I’m still mad about it. I had felt like I would have been more prepared if someone had told me. As it was, her death came suddenly to me and only me, leaving me in a slightly different kind of reality than the rest of my family.

I had cried as my family gathered in Mimi’s home for one of the last times. I had cried until I couldn’t, until I found myself laying down on Mimi’s bed, laying on top of the worn and warm quilt unable to keep my eyes open under all the used up emotions.

I expected something similar to happen now that I’m in bed, but maybe it’s that expectation that has me rolling over onto my back to stare into the dark of my room until my eyes adjust enough to make out shapes of familiar things coated in shadow. Because that time I had woken up with my mom sitting up in Mimi’s bed beside me. When I had stirred enough for her to know I was awake, she had gathered me into her arms letting me know how sorry she was that I had to experience such pain so early in life.

Now, now she’s the reason for the pain I feel and I don’t think waking up to her beside me now would end in something so kind. So I don’t fall asleep, I stare into the darkness until I can see before I light up my phone to check the time resetting my vision to pitch black.

By one, I’m starting to second guess the outlines of objects in my room. I can’t remember the order of items on my desk, I can’t tell what makes up the face of that poster, I can’t determine which direction my ceiling fan is spinning.

By two, I can’t stand to lay in bed any longer, my legs feeling tense and tingly, needing to be move. I stand up and finally toss off my jeans when I can’t help but focus on the weight of them around my leg, uncomfortable and just too much.

I sit down in my computer chair without turning on any lights. The chair creaks in the dark as I throw my weight into it’s back. I don’t know what to do with my hands and end up aligning them perfectly with the armrests - elbow to wrist against the plastic, fingers gripped around the material. I suspect it feels a little bit how it would to be strapped to a chair.

By four, I’ve moved the chair over to my window. I play absentmindedly with the drawn curtains with my head rested against the wall while I watch the darkness outside of my room. Street lamps highlight areas while pushing the rest of the street further into a blackness that makes it impossible for me to distinguish things in the dark. It might be my eyes or my head, but it doesn’t take long for the night to play tricks on me. I swear something moves just out of the glow of the streetlamp, just out of view between cars.

When the dark sky starts to filter other colors from the rising sun, I can see my neighbors start to wake up - some leaving in their cars while others start flicking on lights around their houses. It reminds me that I wasted my night not sleeping, that there’s no way I’m going to be a functioning member of society, that a new day has started while I’m stuck on yesterday.

By six, the light in the hallway outside of my room is on, slipping underneath my door. I watch the light, listening intently as a shadow steps in front of my door. There’s a rustling and my doorknob starts to turn, only to snap back into a closed position as the shadow moves away quickly. It comes back a few minutes later and again after that, both times leaving my door untouched.

By seven, I’ve texted Cal that I’m not going to school today, shielding my phone with curved shoulders as if I don’t want teachers to see, to get into trouble for talking to someone when I’m not supposed to even though I’m literally in my own room with no one around. He asks me if I’m okay and I want so badly to tell him yes. I don’t.

The shadow returns, or maybe it’s a different one I don’t know for sure, but this time the doorknob turns completely. My back goes straight and I spin my chair to let me look directly at the door as it opens to reveal my dad standing there.

He looks like he didn’t sleep, worn under the eyes and a straight face that doesn’t hide away as much as it did last night. There’s a few heavy blinks and his grip loosens and then tightens on the doorknob. I can see him holding back words, pulling them back down into his chest, being replaced by, “you should get dressed if you don’t want to be late for school.”

“I’m staying home,” I answer unfolding my legs from where I’ve bent them to fit into the seat of the chair, bare feet hitting the floor.

“Your mom is staying home.” And maybe that should make me want to leave, maybe he wants it to make me leave, but honestly, it doesn’t. It’s very possible that nothing good will come from staying home with my mom, but I can’t even comprehend trying to function at school today. I’m not ready to be part of the world again. I nod at his words, taking them in fully. “Are you sure you want to stay home too?”

My eyes shoot up to his face where they had been fluttering to and from the floor. “Are you sure you want to go to work?” I ask with a bit of bite because I seriously can’t understand how he’s going to just go to work, go on with his life as if nothing happened last night.

I realize with a slink of my shoulders that the next words out of his mouth are going to be some kind of justification, and I really don’t want them to be. I want him to stay home, to give me answers only him and Mom can offer. I want him to call into work and stay and fix this like he does with most things.

Mostly, I don’t want him to walk out too.

“I have to do my job, Garrett.” The words are tighter than the rest of his speech has been so far and I don’t miss the implication. My dad has always told me that school was my job - treat it like I was getting paid to learn, uphold a sense of pride in my work, show up on time, every day.

He still wants me to leave, to go to school, to leave Mom alone.

I shuffle in my computer chair, swing my gaze over to my bed, the hotness of something negative and soiled rushing under my skin. Staring unblinkingly at the mix-match of photographs I have tacked onto the wall above my side table, beside my headboard. I have pictures of the soccer team, my sister and her husband at their wedding, baby pictures of my nieces, pictures of them older on my shoulders or in my arms, photos of me and Bram in freshman year after we both made the soccer team, one with Bram and Spier looking grossly in love when we were all at the park.

There’s a variety of pictures with me and my parents on family trips and during holidays over the years.

“You should _do_ your job,” I say finally, “but maybe that job should be taking care of your family, of me, instead of planning on where to send me off to just because I’m not straight.” The words taste like my frown and cuts hard into the room.

I turn to face my dad just in time to see the second of confusion on his face shift to recognition, going white in shock, jaw-dropping to part his lips, eyebrows arching up, “you heard that?”

“It’s not like you guys were being quiet.” I spit because he doesn’t even try to tell me I’m wrong and that _hurts_ as much as hearing it last night.

“Yes, well, I wasn’t sure when you left… I just knew that when I came to get you, you were gone.” He pauses there, something thin passing through his eyes that’s a little rough and a little soft.

I speak up then, interrupting the next things out of his mouth. “I waited for two hours, Dad. I was going crazy just waiting around… so, well, so I left.” The heat in my voice filters out and I lose the strength to keep looking at his face with each word.

“Where did you go?” And I wasn’t expecting him to ask, really, but there’s enough tint of odd-colored fear in his voice for me to think that maybe he’s not asking because he's worried about me, but because he’s worried about who I was with.

I decide on the truth that I started with yesterday. “My boyfriend’s.”

I can see him nod his head slowly at the two words. I cross my arms in front of my chest, low and cradling my elbow in something softer, more protective in nature than what I usually need. “You did mention you were dating someone.” It’s my turn to nod, slowly and uncomfortably.

“Yeah… so, that’s where I was while you and mom discussed kicking me out.” There’s no attempt at sarcastic humor in my words, just something bitter as I shift my weight from one foot to the other.

“We aren’t kicking you out, Garrett.” He responds quickly with a huff that I’m not sure is completely directed at me, “we would - I would never kick you out.” I don’t miss the correction. I also don’t miss how my eyes are starting to water and I have to grit my teeth and swallow hard to not cry. I walk over to my bed to sit down hoping to draw attention away from my maybe tears. “Garrett? Do you hear me?”

“Yea - yeah, okay.” Is all I can manage.

The room falls into an odd silence that’s accepting of the moment and nothing else. It lasts until my dad lets out a heavy, bone-deep sigh and says he needs to get to the office, but then he pauses and adds, “I told your mother that you were asleep when I came to get you. Don’t tell her differently.”

What? I almost say out loud, the sinking under the waves feeling I was fighting flips over to confusion, quick-firing off on different paths on what this could mean. I almost ask why he did that, but I swallow the word down not wanting to actually know the answer, unsure on how this new piece of information would fit into the situation so far.

And then he’s gone, closing the door behind him. I listen for the front door opening and locking behind him, preventing the rest of the world access into the torn household.

I move to lay down on my bed, pull at the covers trapped under me until I manage to get enough to cover my shoulders. I’m not cold, but there’s a level of comfort that comes from being wrapped up almost like there are arms around my shoulders instead of fabric. I focus on the feeling of Cal holding me last night while I frickin’ broke down on him.

God, he’s just so _good_. It’s almost hard to fathom, to understand how - why he’s with me.

It’s not that I think I’m a bad guy or anything, but I know I make mistakes, that I have made mistakes, that I have a problem with choosing my battles, of getting into fights, turning things physical because I’ve never been good with words, that I talk too much, too loudly sometimes, that I tend to say the wrong thing the first time around, I know I can be a bit dense sometimes, and I know _now_ that my family isn’t that accepting of people.

That has to be hard to deal with. Like all of that other stuff about me is manageable and I try to make up for it all with kisses and compliments and remembering small details, but all of that stuff on top of dealing with my parents and my situation with my parents - well, that’s a bit much.

But Cal just takes it, handles it, accepts it and everything else about me.

I run my hands over my face, scrubbing away the wetness there that I can’t manage between my thoughts about Cal and my conversation with my dad - like what even was that?! What am I supposed to take from that? Why did it have to leave me with more questions than answers?

Why the fuck did he leave?

By nine, my face is dry and my head is more of a mess than ever. I push through the fog long enough to write and rewrite and rewrite a text to Cal answering his question from earlier finally. I don’t get to press send before I get a text from Bram. He’s asking if I’m alright too, if I have a migraine and if I want him to grab school work I’m missing for him. I don’t know why he asked, I already know he’s started doing that the moment he realized I wasn’t just late like he has before when I’ve missed without me ever asking him too.

He’s a much better student than me, and he’s a really decent guy. How could my parents hate him so much just because he’s gay? How could they hate me because I’m pan? _No, no, no, no I’m not doing this right now._ I am not going down this rabbit hole of thought _again_. I focus on my fingers moving across my screen as I answer Bram and then Cal.

 

 **October 5th** **  
** **Text Group: Me, Bram the English Guru**

9:08 AM G :: hey dude. Ive been better. Id tell u not to worry about schoolwork but u wouldnt listen.

9:09 AM G :: Im not sick. just family stuff.

 

10:01 AM G :: dont worry about dropping things off after school. Ill just get school stuff from u tomorrow.

 

 **October 5th** **  
** **Text Group: Me, Cal $$**

9:11 AM G :: Idk what I am. I just cant be at school today. I dont even want to leave my room.

 

9:20 AM G :: dad went to work but my mom is staying home. I dont want to talk to her.

9:20 AM G :: I talked to my dad before he left.

9:21 AM G :: he said he wouldnt kick me out. thats good u know. dont have to worry about that.

9:21 AM G :: not that I was actually worried.

9:21 AM G :: I was worried but not like actually worried. just like concerned but not.

 

9:32 AM G :: he started to say ‘we’ but corrected himself.

 

10:14 AM G :: I think my mom might hate me.

 

By eleven, I’ve gotten responses from both of them, but I haven’t looked at them. My head is going around and around with the last text I sent Cal. She can’t really hate me, right? I know what happened, I know what she said, I know all of that, but I’m still her _son._ But then I think about how she looked at me last night and I think maybe her being my mom means more than me being her son does.

My mom had been the one that had gone on about not wanting me around - _“What’s wrong with him?” “We can’t let him be like that!” “Dear god, Ed, why is this happening to us?” “He is not dating a boy while he’s living here.” “I won’t have him here if he doesn’t refuse to stop this.” “I don’t know, Edward, anywhere but here!” -_ and my dad had corrected himself just hours earlier on how he won’t kick me out.

Does that mean he’s not bothered by the fact that I’m dating a guy? He looked bothered. Tense around the eyes, shoulders taught, hands clenched like it that was the only thing preventing him from using his hands in some way. Maybe he’s just not as bothered, then.

So my mom might hate me, but my dad might not.

I hold onto that thought, grip hard onto the hope that’s tangled in that thought.

By noon, my room is lit up by the sunshine that's coming in through my window and it’s such a juxtaposition to the storm inside me that I swallow hard and start blinking away unshed tears. It’s like the house has trapped all the bad things inside, shielding the rest of the world from it but leaving me to soak in it.

I’ve tried so hard this entire year to keep all the hate, all the hard things inside these walls. Allowing my friends to know nothing and me to pretend everything is okay out in the real world. I’ve let the passive aggressive comments soak into the carpet. I’ve hidden away all the fears about my family and me in shoe boxes under my bed. I’ve taken all the hate towards Bram and hung it up in closets around the house. I’ve left all the weight of hiding these things on the coat rack every time I walk out the door, just letting it wait for me to return home so I can wear it again.

It makes my body feel heavy and fuzzy, all the thoughts and questions with no end to any of it. I roll onto my back, my blanket shifting off my shoulders crumpling underneath me, uncomfortable. I stretch out my arms, my back, my legs hoping to ease some of the tension making it just a little bit easier to move.

By one, I finally make to leave my room the ache of my empty stomach getting to the point of being impossible to ignore. Which, I guess makes sense considering my last meal had been lunch at school, dinner having gone up in flames with my confession.

I walk down the hall into the living room, pausing at the doorway of the kitchen unable to cross that threshold as I start to rewatch last night’s events play out. I squeeze my eyes shut to block out the memory. With a deep breath that shakes my core and without opening my eyes I step into the kitchen. It feels more like a jump.

But I land on my feet.

Opening my eyes, I shuffle over to the fridge hoping to find something easy to eat, my skin prickling.

“Oh.” The soft word makes me freeze, body going rigid as if my bones all fuse together in that moment. My mom is standing on the other side of the room. Her hair is pulled back, but there are strands loose and frizzy. Her eyes are wide, blinking rapidly as she takes me in. There’s something strange in her eyes. There’s heat, but it’s cooled off and continues to twists into different shapes, never looking away from me.

And then she smiles. It’s like a punch to the gut and I fumble, my thoughts tripping over themselves.

“You didn’t go to school.” It’s not a question, just an acknowledgment that’s followed by a shuffling of her feet. Something clicks inside her and then she’s by the cabinets pulling out a large pot and bowls. “Why don’t I make us some lunch - mac ‘n cheese? It’s always been your favorite.”

I have no idea what’s happening, but I finally shut the fridge with choppy movements my skin relieved at getting away from the cold refrigerator air that had made my flesh pimple up into goose flesh. “Uh, sure,” I answer feeling dizzy enough that I have to sit down at the dining table we have set up in the open space on the far side of the room.

My mom nods, pleased with my answer and goes about making lunch.

I’m silent as I watch her. She’s acting like nothing happened, like we’re okay and maybe we are. Maybe she’s thought about, maybe she regrets the things she said last night, maybe she loves me still? Or maybe she’s trying to forget what happened, what I said?

I almost don’t want to ask, to break the uneasy peace we seem to have right now. I don’t want to go back to the hate. I want her to smile at me and make me lunch and to be fine with me.

Staring down at my arms folding onto the table in front of me, I’m startled when my mom places a bowl of cheesy pasta in front of me and sets her own on the opposite side of the table. She grabs us drinks and spoons and finally sits down, her movements easy and soft, but her presence heavy on my shoulders.

I pick my spoon, stirring my food, watching as the pasta moves past one another and slides around the spoon. I can feel my stomach calling for the food, but my throat is dry and my mouth filled with too much cotton to eat.

“Mom?” My voice is soft with worry.

“Yes, honey?”

“About last night…” I trail off unsure where to take the sentence. What am I supposed to ask? There’s so many things I want to know, but before I can figure out what to ask my mom sighs so hard that I snap my gaze up and the peace shatters around me.

“That was so terrible, wasn’t it?” She asks with no want of an answer, “it was just so much, but don’t worry, Garrett. I  forgive you for saying such things.”

I rest my hand on the table, my spoon sinking into the bowl, as I stare at her wide-eyed. “Forgive me? What, Mom, I don’t need forgiveness - I’m not sorry for what I said.” I’m absolutely not sorry I remind myself. I didn’t say anything wrong.

“I forgive you.” My mom repeats with gritted teeth, “and we’ll fix this as a family.”

“Fix what?”

“You.”

It’s one word. It’s one word and it hurts like hell just opened a hole right underneath me, letting the flames light me up in heat and searing pain that at a certain point just causes my nerves to go numb, my body no longer able to understand the sensation.

It’s worse, I think, that my mom has locked eyes with me and there isn’t an ounce of doubt in her. I want to say the same - because I shouldn’t be doubtful, I shouldn’t. I’m not.

“Mom…” I breath heavy and cracked, “I’m not broken. I’m not wrong. At least not for liking boys as well as - for liking people. I’m not wrong for having a boyfriend.” And because I think she just doesn’t understand I continue with something almost like hope of acceptance in my voice, “Mom, he’s great - he kind and funny and so clever. He loves movies and plays and has the prettiest eyes I’ve ever seen. Mom, he makes me so fucking happy. That can’t be wrong, right?”

My mom takes a breath in, raising her chin a little taking in my words to think over. It causes her to look down her nose at me just a bit, just enough that I hate it. I always have. But, at least she looks like she listening to me this time instead of cutting me off, telling me no over and over again.

I’m surprised when she reaches across the table, resting her hand on top of mine, in a comforting warmth and it makes my chest hurt for a good reason. “I’m your mother, Garrett. All I want is for you to be happy.” Something bright explodes in my chest and my shoulders lower in relief, in the rush of all my fears and hurt washing off my back. I keep her gaze as my eyes start to water. “I want you to be happy, but, honey, you can’t be happy like this - no matter what you think is happening. You’re just confused, being influenced by the wrong people, because this - what you’re talking about, it _is_ wrong. I need you to see that, and I need you to understand that your father and I will help you get over this.”

Everything crashes back down on me and I almost tear my hand away from her’s. I don’t, but mainly because she tightens her grip just slightly when tears start to crawl down my face, unable to stop them as I forget how to breathe.

“Mom…”

“Shh, shh, it’s okay, Garrett. It’s okay.”

I just cry harder when my mom gets up to step beside me, wrapping me in her arms, rocking me back and forth. I hold onto her forearm, the one curled around my front, pulling it just slightly away in order to be able to get my lungs to work. Each time she tells me it’s okay, my voice breaks into a sob, and I get more and more lost.

I don’t know how long it’s been, but suddenly I just start frantically shaking my head pulling away enough to put distance between us. She tries to hold me back, but eventually allows me space when I don’t settle down at her calming words or strokes of fingers through my hair like I’m a child.

This time it’s me who gets up and leaves her standing in the kitchen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Look I posted in the time frame I said I would! I'm surprised too. Hopefully, yall enjoyed this chapter.  
> I wasn't too sure on this one, but I felt like I needed this transition chapter to happen and then my beta nymphstreet read it over for me and made me feel a lot better about it in general along with fixing my errors! So thanks to them. I appreciate it for sures.
> 
> I think the next chapter will be done sooner than this one was, but I'm still giving myself a month just because I keep jumping between this story and a few others for this series. The others one are more fluffy which might get posted periodically. 
> 
> I'm going to get replies to comments now. Thank yall everyone for reading and I hope you enjoy it!!


	5. Friday, October 6th

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garrett is way too tired to be at school, but he's there anyways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, first off sorry I didn't post last month - I got really sick at the end of May and spent about three weeks in and out of doctors offices, but I'm better now! Well, better-ish. Mostly better. I'll be good to go for sure in no time. Being sick did take time away from writing, and this chapter isn't exactly done, but I ended up splitting it into two chapters so that I can get something up this month and not leave you guys hanging. It is for that same reason that this is not beta'd. I'll prolly try to get it beta'd soonish and then I'll replace the chapter with the updated version then. When I do - I'll let yall know.
> 
> Uh, anyways, I guess enjoy!

I try not to think about Thursday - or Wednesday for that matter - while at school the next day. 

I don’t manage well. Classes seem to last forever, I keep having to dodge questions after being asked them two or three times because I didn’t hear them the first time. My thoughts swim in circles, pulling me under the tide any time I let my guard down, my parents' words coming back to the surface. It’s been like this ever since the morning when I laid in bed watching the numbers on my phone turn from 0 to 1 to 2 to 3 to 4, stopping it before it got to 5 where it would trigger my alarm, ignoring the text notification from Cal, Bram and a few others from yesterday, last night, and even one early this morning. 

I’m pretty sure the text I got this morning was from Cal, but I haven’t actually checked. I haven’t checked any of them. A little envelope symbol sits on the notification bar at the top of my phone. My fingers itch to click on it out of habit every time I look at my phone. I don’t need to read them, though, I know what they say.

It’s just Bram checking in, talking about what I missed in classes, soccer practice, and probably Spier in some form or another. It’s Jay talking shit about Spencer during gym and at practice because I’m not there to do so within person. It’s Emma Jane asking for help in chem despite being better at it than me. It’s Cal being worried and asking how I am if I need anything. It’s little things, insignificant things really. Things that got settled today - I told Bram everything got settled without ever telling him what the issue was, to begin with, I traded comments with Jay about Spencer when the jerk showboated in gym, I sidestepped Emma Jane’s flirting, and I let Cal see I was alive and well even if it’s not true - so I don’t need to read the messages. It’s all been settled and I can use the little bit of energy I have to get through the remaining minutes of class.

Except, it’s not really settled.

Telling my parents about my sexuality was suppose to be the end of my lies, but I didn’t exactly tell Bram the truth today, and the sideways looks he kept giving me at lunch and in gym makes me thinks he caught on to the fact that I wasn’t really giving him any answers when he asked about the family issue I had mentioned yesterday in our texts. I wish I had given him a different answer. I don’t want to lie, but every time Bram looks at me my blood pressure spikes, and I have to stop myself from running away. I don’t want to lie, but I don’t want to say the truth.

I don’t even know how to say the truth. I’m not a shaking mess like I was the other night at Cal’s, saying similar words now just doesn’t seem to fit. Am I really expected to start a conversation about my parents and their hate in the middle of the day, among students, in class, right after discussing our homework? It seems wrong to bring it up like that - as if doing so would make it seem less believable as if doing so would make it less hurtful.

I don’t want to have to convince people. I don’t want to explain. Hell, I don’t want to say anything at all.

I just don’t think I can get away with not talking about it anymore

But maybe I can get away with it a few more days. A few more days to adjust, to figure out, to be okay. Today was difficult, but I’ve almost made it. It’s already the last class of the day and while I’m not entirely looking forward to soccer in my current state, that’s all that’s standing between me and being done.

Ms. Gilpatrick moves past my table and it startles me from my thoughts. Along with introductory chemistry and biology, she’s teaching introduction to human physiology and I had opted for that as my second elective after gym this year. I enjoy the class and Ms. Gilpatrick is a good teacher - she cares about her students. Which is why I’m not entirely surprised when she takes a step back to stand beside my side of the lab table I’m at, resting a hand on the table top near my blank notebook and blank assignment. I’m sure she’s noted the lack of penmanship there.

Ms. Gilpatrick is a tall Irish woman and she leans down when she speaks to me in the corresponding accent, “If you aren’t feeling better from yesterday, Garrett, you can always turn this in tomorrow with the homework you missed yesterday, “ she offers assuming I was out because I was sick. I get migraines enough that most teachers I interact with regularly assume that if I’m out and it’s not for soccer it’s because my head hurts. The assumption comes in handy when I need an excuse to miss class. Usually. Right now it just makes me think of lies.

I glance down at my papers and then back up to her with a grimace, sitting up straighter now that I’m out of my thoughts, “sorry...uh, yeah if I can do that - that would be great.” It’s not a lie. I don’t feel good. I know she’s assuming I was sick, but she didn’t actually  _ say  _ that. I don’t have to be sick to not feel good.

Ms. Gilpatrick nods, assuring me it’s fine and asking me if I need anything explained. I tell her I’m good, because really I am. I understand the subject matter to a good enough degree that with the textbook I think I could manage a passing grade on the work. It’s just about getting my head to focus long enough to read and write the answers - a problem that’s been getting increasingly worse as the school year passes.

I add it on my list of problems to deal with at a later date and pretend to focus on reading the text now that I don’t have to pretend to be working on the assignment until the bell rings for the end of class and the school day. I gather up my things quickly and make to get out of the classroom, anxious and ready to work off some of the stress with soccer before finally being done with school. 

I don’t acknowledge the fact that when practice is over I’ll have to go home where my parents will be.

On my way to the gym I detour to the auditorium to see Cal. Our last three classes don’t overlap at all and I haven’t been as attached to my phone as normal so we’ve been a little quiet. Cal’s been a little more quiet than normal. I don’t know if he’s worried, if he’s hurt, if he’s doubting. 

Cal isn’t shy. He’s quiet, but not shy. He minds his words, and his drawl stretches his words, but he doesn’t move away from talking. He does divert the conversation, though, seals his lips on topics he doesn’t want to speak on. Like when I messed up texting him in the summer. Like when I asked about exes.  He can get self-conscious and he can get worried about saying too much, but this… today has been different.

Today, he’s stayed engaged but kept his distance. He’s been biting his lip when talking to me and taking longer to choose his words. Sometimes, he won’t catch my gaze. It’s a little like the week before I came out to my friends - when we kept missing each other resulting in distance being made without meaning to. He had been worried then too, doubtful that I would continue to reach out, wondering if I would just let us continue to drift apart. He had been worried about the future of our relationship.

Is he again? 

The only thing that would make him think that was what went down with my parents. Maybe he’s thought about it and dealing with all of this isn’t worth being with me? I wouldn’t blame him. It would suck and I’ll be mad, but I get it. It’s a lot.

And maybe that would be what was best. For both of us.

Cal’s last class is already theater, so I don’t waste time waiting in the hall for him to show up for after-school practice. The auditorium isn’t quiet, but there’s this lull of conversation and productivity as things shift from class to after school stuff. Students who were already here mill about already with plays in hands or silly costume pieces on while others file into the room moving in between aisles of seats to put their stuff down.

I spot Cal sitting in the first row, his head bent down to look at something in his lap. The theater teacher is beside him and she’s gesturing with her hands over something causing me to think they’re talking. I pause only a second to steel my resolve before walking up to the front and taking the free seat on Cal’s other side. 

He looks up from the blue binder in his lap clearly startled by not so quiet arrival. Wide eyes fall under scrunched brows as he takes me in, confusion taking over his face. I note that Ms. Albright has paused the conversation to look at me as well. There’s a second of surprise before I think she registers that I’m not one of her students.

“I’m going to run by my office, Cal, pick up those copies of the second scene that I left there.” She says after a moment of studying us. Cal nods as if he heard her, but doesn’t look away from me and I’m sinking further and further into my seat putting my back at a bad curve.

It’s only when Cal’s teacher is gone that he seems to understand that I am in fact sitting beside him right now. “Is everything okay?” He asks concern coloring his words, but I can’t tell what caused the concern to be there.

I think about taking his hand, but I don’t, instead, I readjust my backpack into my lap and try to sit up more. Words and fears jump around in my head, born from today and my parent’s words - my mom’s words in particular. None of it stays long enough for me to determine exactly what each one is. No, they only stay long enough to leave me nervous, off-footed, and wondering.

“I don’t know. Are we?” I ask dropping my gaze down to my backpack and then back up so that I can look for answers in what he doesn’t say.

Cal’s eyes flicker up to my face from where they had been drifting down my form in study, not appreciation. He looks a bit confused or maybe just surprised at my words. Not that the words are there in between us, but that I spoke them. 

Cal’s features soften then and he reaches out to take my hand. The moment his fingers brush the back of my hand, a rocket shoots off through my veins. It’s hot and too large, painful with exhaust fumes corroding the walls of my veins and arteries. Before I can register more than the pain, I jerk my hand away hiding it away with my other hand underneath my backpack. I drop my gaze to take in Cal’s hand still floating above my lap. His long, slim fingers shake a little as they slow curl into his own palm before pulling his hand out of my space.

“Oh.” I breathe with realization. Have I been doing that all day? It doesn’t take long recalling the day to know that yes, I have been keeping my distance from Cal, literally pulling away from him. And here I was thinking it was him that was backing off. 

Fuck, my head is screwed up. 

“I thought you knew you were doing it,” Cal confesses with something raw in his voice pulling me out of my head, “I was worried you… you haven’t said anything about what happened yesterday - I was worried your parents said… did something that made you want to end…” Cal trails off biting at the frown at his lips, before giving me a small half smile. 

He reaches out to place his hand on my cheek with the lightest touch I’ve ever felt. It’s still shocking and I still jerk away, but I catch myself this time and let myself settle into the feel of my boyfriend’s hand against my skin, “I should have just realized that you just might need some space right now.” Cal pauses, eyes flickering away and then back. 

I can tell there’s more he wants to say, more thoughts he’s trying to get into words, but I can’t stop myself from saying, “I don’t want space.” I stress hard, as sure as I can make them sound. “I don’t. I didn’t know I was pushing you away.” My head is spinning and I’m so tired that there’s this disconnection from the ache in my chest, but I know it’s there at the end of my nerves. “I don’t want to do that. I don’t want you to doubt that I want this,” my words had started to gain momentum, but all that rush falls away as I force myself to continue looking just over Cal’s shoulder instead of his face, “but I understand if you don’t want to deal with - ”

Cal cuts me off on accident when he chuckles suddenly, all dry and tinted blue, but with amusement over our terrible assumptions of each other hiding at the end of the sound. I let him catch my gaze, falling into the sweeping sea of his eyes, “I don’t want space either, Garrett. I think it’s best if we both remember that despite the situation, neither one of us wants space - we want to be with each other.” 

“I can agree with that.” 

Cal leans forward to press a small kiss to my cheek not being held by his hand, “I’m here for you, Garrett. I might get what you need wrong from time to time, but I’m here for you.”  I lean further into his hand, eyes falling shut as I really take in the words, feeling my stomach settle a little more. 

After a heartbeat, I open my eyes again to meet his, “Same, you know. I’m here if you need me - I want to be here for you if you need someone.” I really, really do. I want him to confide in me more and more. Cal smiles and kisses me again on the cheek. This time I don’t flinch away.

There is a second of silence too long that makes me wonder if there’s something I should say, something more, but I realize Cal is just studying me. I arch an eyebrow at him in a wordless question. He restrengthens his smile and then leans back into his own chair, hands going with him.

“Wanna get out of here?” He asks. I blink a few times in surprise, “unless you want to go to practice.”

And it’s not until he says it that I realize I really, really don’t want to go to practice. I’m tired and the idea of pushing myself physically after all the mental stress I’ve been under sounds like a death wish. Shaking my head a little, “no, no, let's go.” 

“Okay, give me one second.” Cal steals my hand, squeezes it in comfort, in reassurance before leaving me to go find his teacher. It’s only then that I realize that ditching practice for me means ditching theater for him. Guilt hits my shoulders even if I know he wouldn’t have asked if he wasn’t okay with doing do. I remind myself of that fact a few times.

Cal comes back before I fall into a pit of thoughts I don’t want to get into. He offers me his hand and helps me to my feet when I take it. 

“You going to be okay?” I ask knocking my head back towards the stage as we head towards the doors.

He nods, “yeah, Ms. Albright likes you.”

“Really? I don’t think I’ve ever talked to her - how can she like me?” I ask incredulous pushing the auditorium door open for us. 

On the other side, Cal pulls me to a stop with the hand he still has only to let go of my fingers and run both hands over my shoulders, letting them settle over my collarbones in something too soft to be just tender, something careful. “You’re just a likable guy, Garrett.” He says with so much honesty that I don’t understand how my parents don’t agree with him.

My chest feels too tight, filled with warmth that’s threatening to overfill into my limbs. I take Cal’s face in my hands, raising it up and lowering my own at the same time so that I can meet his worried eyes. “Thank you.” I praise before brushing my lips against his in our first actual kiss of the day.

It’s the highlight of my day. Kissing Cal always is. 

His fingers curl into my shirt, pulling the thermal tight around my neck as I tilt my head to harden the kiss overtaken by my want of him being closer. Now that I’ve let him in, realized I was pushing him away, flinching away myself, I can leave that behind to fall into the safety of  _ Cal _ . His lips move against mine, parting just enough to flicker his tongue across my bottom lip causing me to drop my jaw to welcome his tongue into my mouth. Running it along my teeth, twisting it with my own, and I definitely moan a little when trails his tongue on the ridges at the top of my mouth. He swallows down the sound I make as he pulls away, breaking the kiss that leaves me breathing a little too hard considering we’re standing in the middle of our school’s hallway where anyone could have seen us.

I feel his grip on my shirt loosens, but my eyes are watching parted lips letting much-needed air pass them. They looked good kissed pink and I’m thinking about kissing him again when I watch his lips turn into a smile that calls my attention up to his eyes, shining with welcoming happiness that’s a relief to both of us.

I let my hands still on his cheeks slide back down to his shoulders to pull him into a quick hug, whispering another ‘thank you’ into his hair before pulling away completely. Cal takes my hand before I get too far and without another word, just another smile, we head out to my truck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just really want to thank everyone for their kind reviews and support of this story and this series - it really means so much to me that I literally can't put it into words. It makes my day knowing you guys enjoy my writing about these two lovely boys. And sorry this chapter isn't so great! <3 <3 <3


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